With Absolute Certainty
by layhee
Summary: She needs the light. She shies away from the unknown and she needs the light. He's here to change that. FryRiddick.


There are a lot of things Carolyn Fry isn't sure about, especially now. She's not sure if the scars running over her body and face will fade. She's not sure if she can walk through dry heat without shuddering. She's not sure if she'll ever be able to step into a dark room. She's not sure she wants to see Imam again, or Jack, or Riddick. She's really not sure about Riddick.

There is, however, one thing that Carolyn Fry's pretty damn certain of, and that's that she never, _ever_, should have accepted a position as a shuttle pilot. She's developed a decided distaste for space, and piloting a shuttle means she's in it repeatedly every day. She's conscious the whole time, which really is a mixed blessing. On one hand, if she's already awake, there's no chance of her being woken early and spat out onto the ground to come face to face with dead crewmen and stranded cargo. On the other, if she's awake, she has to sit there, _awake_, and stare out into the dark depths of space, _awake_.

On the bright side, it's a short run, and between flights she gets a break. The company puts her up in a room on the orbitside station and another on the transfer station. They're not much, nothing more than a bed and bath with a cramped kitchenette stuck into a corner, and they're not home. One has a porthole, which really doesn't do her any favours. She spent three days pay buying thick enough curtains to hide it.

Now, making her way back to her quarters, she pulls her cap a little further down over her forehead and steps quickly. She overslept in the morning, the transfer station's computers struggling to keep up with a throughfare overload and neglecting her alarm clock settings. Rushed enough to almost leave without a bra, she sprinted to her flight unshowered. Now she regrets it, wishing she'd made her passengers wait the two extra minutes it would've taken her to wash up.

Her hair is stringy and slips listlessly from its regulation bun, falling forward to frame her mangled face in dirty brownish clumps. It's not an attractive look, and she's fairly sure the grey-green hat she'd got pulled down over it isn't really helping, but it's better than nothing and it means she doesn't have to meet anyone's eyes as she passes them in the hallways.

She drops her briefcase-satchel just inside the door and flops onto her bed, staring up at the gloomy chrome ceiling. Now that she's home, if it can really be called that, all she wants to do is sleep. The shower beckons rather uninvitingly from across the room, but the creeping smell of her own sweat drives her up and into the bathroom.

She sighs heavily and peels off her uniform, tossing it out into the hallway to be dumped into the cleaner later. The water that drizzles out of the slightly rusted faucet is warm, and though she is forever annoyed by the lack of pressure, she supposes it's a luxury and she should be thankful. Most rooms here only have a sonic pulser.

She stays in for a long time, until the red light at the top of the stall blinks accusingly at her, signalling her allotment cut off. She sighs again lightly and shuts the water off, stepping out and reaching for her towel. The rack is empty.

She blinks, surprised. Had she left it somewhere else and forgotten about it? Maybe in the cleaner? She walks carefully out of the washroom and pulls the in bin open from the wall. Empty. Frowning, she scans the main room for any sign of it.

"Looking for this?" It's a deep voice, teasing and a bit seductive, and she knows it well.

She whirls, arms snapping up to cover herself as best she can. "Riddick." She snatches at the bundle of fluffy fabric he's dangling but he pulls it back. "Give me that," she snaps irritably.

He wags a finger at her. "What's the magic word?"

"Please," she spits, one hand still outstretched. He plunks the towel into it and she whips it around herself. "What are you doing here?"

"Seeing you, obviously." He smirks in his own way and moves off to inspect a little figurine she has on her table. He holds it up questioningly.

"A passenger gave it to me," she shrugs as though it means nothing but goes over to pluck it from his hand. She sets it back on the table. "Something about praying for a safe flight." She heads back to the bathroom and picks up her stinking uniform, piling it into the cleaner and flipping it on. From her closet, she pulls out fresh clothes, casual civs this time. She steps into a pair of white panties while he watches blatantly. "You gonna turn around?"

"Wasn't planning on it," he replies with his usual bluntness. She shakes her head, chuckling despite herself and proceeds to dress herself the rest of the way. "You're looking worse for wear," he comments, eyes roaming her battered limbs. She hopes he doesn't see her cringe and shrugs. "How'd you manage to get off that planet? Imagine my surprise to find you listed in the books at this place."

"I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind," she says evasively, zipping up her pants and not looking at him.

"I do mind," he says, as she'd half-expected he would.

She turns to put on her bra, gazing absently at the far wall. "Let's just say that male aggression is universal. Apparently their desire for a mate was stronger than their desire for food, and I was just lucky enough to have been caught by a particularly attractive female." Her hands pause on the clasp, still only half-fastened. "I managed to hide in the coring room, locked properly this time. The sun came up, I came out. The rescue team was there." Her breath catches slightly. "The sun always comes up."

A large hand glides over her bare back, coming to rest on her shoulder. She turns her head just enough to see him in peripheral. "The sun always comes up," he echoes.

She draws a shaky breath. "How's—" her voice cracks, "How's Jack?"

And then she's enveloped in the most solid embrace she's ever encountered. He has to be the strongest man she's met and having his arms around her brings a whole new meaning to safe. She presses her head against his chest and hiccups a sob. "Oh god," she whispers.

He strokes her hair, a surprisingly tender gesture, and his touch is gentle. She holds onto him tightly, letting him rock her slightly back and forth as she struggles to get a hold of herself. He murmurs something that she doesn't quite catch, but it's soothing in an unexpected way to be held by this murderer and before she knows it she's breathing normally again.

She pulls away from him and he holds her by the shoulders, taking one hand off briefly to clear her face of tears. She grins crookedly up at him and he gives her his rare smile back. "Thanks."

"Anytime." He releases her and steps away. "See you around."

She watches him head for the door, mind slow to realize that she _really_ doesn't want him to leave. Not yet. "Riddick," she calls after him. He stops and looks at her over his shoulder. "I—I meant it. How's Jack?"

"Honestly?" he moves slightly back into the main room. "Last I heard she was good. Haven't seen her in a year."

Carolyn frowns, indignation bolstering her composure. "Where've you been? That kid looks up to you like no one else, you know. You can't just leave her."

He shrugs. "Staying out of the slam takes priority in my book. In hers, too," he adds, smirking again. "You'd be proud of her. She's got a damn good sleight of hand."

"If you taught her—"

"She taught herself," he says a bit defensively, holding up his hands. "Cute kid."

Carolyn searches his hidden eyes fruitlessly and finally shakes her head, laughing slightly despite herself. "Stay for supper?" she offers. She doesn't want to be alone. She hopes it isn't as evident in her voice as she thinks it is. "I'm not much of a cook, but what can you really do to a package, right?"

He looks vaguely amused. "While that's quite the package you got there," he nods at her chest, "you might want to put a shirt on. For one, those food packets sometimes behave… unexpectedly, and boiling mush leaves nasty marks. And for two, _I_ sometimes behave unexpectedly." She flushes and grabs up her shirt from where she left it on the bed. "But I leave much better marks."

She has to laugh at that and pulls her shirt over her head, returning to the kitchen and pulling a packet of rice and veggies from the cooler. She pops it into the heater and turns to face him, leaning against the counter comfortably. He's studying her, watching her intently through those dark goggles of his. Without warning, he calls for lights off.

She inhales sharply, hands gripping the counter. "Riddick—" she gasps, her breath going shallow.

"Still afraid of the dark." The comment is quiet, a bit taunting and a bit dangerous. "Shame. I thought you'd have got used to it by now."

"I—" She's finding it hard to get enough air. Her heart pounds in her chest. She needs the lights. She tries to call them on without success. _Oh god. Oh god. _She can't speak.

She hears him chuckle somewhere in the darkness. She curls in on herself defensively, shrinking away from the pressing unknown. Something touches her arm and she jerks back. He takes a firmer hold of her and pulls her forward. She pulls desperately at him, crying out for him to stop, to let her go. His free hand clamps over her mouth, stifling her screams. She manages to get her teeth around one of his fingers and bites down hard. He grunts but doesn't let go.

"There's nothing," he says slowly, voice unstrained despite having to hold her struggling form, "to be afraid of."

Her eyes are beginning to adjust and she can make out the shapes of her bed and the hallway to the bathroom. She stills at last, letting him walk her slowly into the main room. "There's nothing else here. It's just us."

"I know," she mutters, shaking off his hand. He keeps a hold on her shoulder and she wonders if it's meant for her comfort or if he just wants to assert his power over her.

She's calming down, her heart still racing but the panic gone. Still tense, she lets him guide her through the room. She pauses outside the bathroom, gazing at her dim silhouette in the mirror.

She jumps as the warmer chimes, whirling, and before she's quite got her footing back, she's pushed up against the wall. She gives a small, surprised cry before his mouth covers hers. She's caught off-guard, not sure what she'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. Especially not _like_ this.

He's almost gentle with her, despite nearly crushing her into the wall. She's too shocked to respond immediately, one way or another. She doubts she'd be able to push him away even if she'd wanted to, and once she's recovered her thoughts enough to open her mouth and meet his tongue, any chance of thinking rationally is flying out the airlock.

He lifts her with ease and her legs lock about his waist while he keeps her pinned. She moans softly as he moves away from her lips, nipping briefly at the bottom one before trailing down her neck. Her back arches and she lets her head fall back, vaguely surprised by how quickly she's given herself over. It might have something to do with the affect his touch is having on her, or it might just be that it's been too damned long since she last did this.

She shudders as his hands slip beneath her shirt, letting him stroke up her back and find the clasp to her bra. He snaps it open with practiced fingers as his lips latch onto the hollow of her neck. She winds her arms around his neck, hands skimming leisurely over his head. His goggles are gone, she notices, and wonders distantly how long they'd been off.

The warmer chimes again and Fry pushes him away half-heartedly. He gives no ground, simply leaving her neck and returning to her mouth. She moans as he parts her lips and teases her tongue, but pushes at him again. "It's gonna burn," she murmurs when she gets the chance.

She unhooks her legs and he lets her down with a grunt. He keeps her for a moment with one hand on either side of her head and kisses her again, deeply. He presses his hips into hers, telling her silently that he wants her. She smiles against his lips, hands gliding over his muscled back. "It'll just take a minute."

She hurries the few steps to the kitchenette and pulls the heater open, snatching the packet out with a hot mitt. She deposits it on the counter and flips the oven off. As she turns to go back to Riddick, she's met with a very large, solid body inches from her nose and she laughs inwardly. She catches a glimpse of his grin in the darkness before he stoops to kiss her.

Her back meets the counter and she whimpers involuntarily as he crushes her against it. Drawing back half an inch, he lifts her and sets her down atop it, spreading her legs and moving between them. He bites her shoulder, gently once, and again, harder. She arches against him, nails digging into his back. Her bare feet trace up his legs, heels pressing into his thighs as his hands find the fasteners to her pants. Her breathing's gone shallow again, but for very different reasons.

He manages to get her pants undone and she takes advantage of his brief pause to tug at his shirt. Obligingly, he shrugs it off and tosses it aside. She runs her hands over this new region of exposed flesh, delighting in the feel of the hard muscle beneath the skin. She leans over to kiss his neck, tongue darting out to taste him before she pulls back.

He follows her, catching her mouth, and takes hold of her hips. He pulls her forward, toward him, until she can feel him pressing against her. She angles her mouth against his, arms wrapped around him, and lets him pick her up.

The bed isn't far, but she's surprised they manage to make it.

* * *

She's not, however, surprised when she wakes up alone. The lights are on full—she supposes it's his version of a note. Slowly, she sits up, looking around. Her clothes are neatly folded on the floor next to the bed, something she never does herself. If she'd had any doubts about what had happened or who'd been there last night, his scent lingers on the sheets, mingling with the smells of sex and sweat. She aches in places she can hardly remember aching in and her head feels fuzzy in a pleasant sort of way.

The computer tells her its five fifteen and she's got forty-five minutes to get to her flight. She groans and climbs out of bed, taking a uniform from the closet and noting with mixed feelings that she doesn't need to shower. She snatches a sandwich from the fridge and peels off the packet as she heads out down the hallways.

Her ship is waiting for her and she hops up the ladder with practiced ease, swinging around the tight corners and sinking down into the pilot's seat. Her copilot looks at her, long-suffering amusement clear on his face as he hands her their flight specs and clearance. "You're almost late. Another rough night?"

She shakes her head slightly, mouth twisting despite herself as she fires up the engines. "You bet. Get on that intercom."

He pulls the talkie down from the ceiling and begins his usual spiel while she signals the dockers to open the doors. They slide apart slowly, grinding on rusty tracks, and Fry lifts off. Carefully, she slots the lumbering shuttle between the gates and, just as Fields finishes his safety speech and tucks the mike back into place, she kicks the engines into high gear. Pressed back in his seat, he looks over at her. "Touchy today, aren't we?"

"Rough night," she echoes. He gives her another half-amused half-annoyed glance and turns back to his console. She shrugs it off – admittedly, she hadn't intended to hit the throttle quite so hard, but it was done now and there wasn't a whole lot of point in pulling back. So they'd be thirty seconds early. Big deal.

An hour in, she's turned the engines off and they're settling in for the long coast. She leans back in her chair as she recites the familiar flight info into the mike, noting with vague discomfort that the darkness outside the small windows doesn't bother her anywhere near as much as it had the day before. She tries not to think about why that might be.

The sound of the door opening startles her. Fields twists about, ready to either greet or send away whoever managed to get past the stewardess. Carolyn doesn't move, listening to the one-sided conversation, and wonders briefly who it is. Then, the intruder speaks and, with a twinge of apprehension, she recognizes the deep voice immediately.

"Sir, please return to the passenger hold," Fields repeats, standing. Fry smirks. He's only five foot four – she can only imagine trying to command authority over a six foot something hulking giant. She practically hears him wither. He shuffles aside and Riddick slides easily into the copilot chair.

"They sure don't build these things for comfort," he mutters, shifting about to fit his legs into their slots. She looks over at him and smiles, glad he's back. He seems to read into her expression and offers his strange half-smile in return. "You didn't think I'd leave without goodbye, did you?"

She's not quite sure what to say. She'd thought he'd done just that, in all honesty. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Fields looking distinctly uncomfortable and uses him to fill the silence. "I'll be okay. Go chat with Jessie or something."

He nods and vanishes out the door. Carolyn shakes her head, looking after him. "So what're you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be on the run."

"Just passing through," he shrugs. "Swear to god, I didn't know this was your ship till I heard your voice on the com." He pauses a moment, and then suddenly they're no longer just talking about the here and now. "I didn't even know you were alive."

She glances at him, wishing he'd take those damned goggles off so she could have some small chance, at least, of guessing at what he's thinking about. His hand brushes her face, unexpected, and she jumps slightly. It curves around her cheek and she closes her eyes, leaning into his touch. Memories of the previous night spring to mind and she feels herself flush. "It's good to see you," he admits softly.

"Good to see you, too," she returns, eyes still closed as his fingers trail along her jaw, sending chills up and down her spine.

His breath tickles her ear as he leans in to kiss her gently. "I'm glad you're alive."

She hardly hears him at first, but then the feeling behind the words catches up with her addled brain and she feels tears prick her eyes. He cares. He actually _cares_ about her. Her lips tweak into a slow smile and she wraps her arms around him. "So am I." And, for the first time since forever and even though there are plenty of other things she's still not sure about, she's damn certain she means it.


End file.
